


The Boy with Wings

by expected_aberrance



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Corruption, Daddy Kink, F/M, Hand Jobs, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Smut, Spoilers for Book 6 - The Winds of Winter, creepyship, hoping the vale plotline pays off, we were ROBBED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: “Alayne, tell me a story, I want a story!”Alayne suppressed a sigh, instead favoring little Lord Robert with a smile his bratty behavior had certainly not earned. He’d had three tales from her already tonight, but if another finally made the sickly-though-stubborn boy yield to sleep without the aid of the poppy it would be best for both of them.“There once was a great Lord Eagle who made his nest at the top of the highest mountain in the land,” she began.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Alayne Stone, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	The Boy with Wings

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is my first real attempt at book canon, and I'm not sure what that says about me. Enjoy!

“Alayne, tell me a story, I want a story!” 

Alayne suppressed a sigh, instead favoring little Lord Robert with a smile his bratty behavior had certainly not earned. He’d had three tales from her already tonight, but if another finally made the sickly-though-stubborn boy yield to sleep without the aid of the poppy it would be best for both of them. The relocation to the Gates of the Moon had actually done the frail child good, though Alayne suspected it wouldn’t last. She pulled the blankets up to his chin so as to cover him from the chill, the bedding mussed from his tantrums. 

“There once was a great Lord Eagle who made his nest at the top of the highest mountain in the land,” she began.

“The Eyrie,” Robert cried happily. 

Alayne nodded, trying her best not to show irritation at the interruption. “He ruled over his people and was respected by even the most fearsome beasts, a friend to wolves and stags alike. One day, the Eagle chose a mate, a beautiful Fish from the Riverlands below the mountain.”

“That’s very silly,” he giggled.

She grinned indulgently. “You’re right of course. But they were married nevertheless, and thought they couldn’t be more happy until, one day, to their joy, they had a son, a little Robin.”

His eyes grew wide as saucers, shining bright for once in interest rather than the sickly sheen that so often coated them. 

“They lived there happily for many years, and would’ve done so for many more, but sadly, the great Eagle became very sick...” 

For the first time she faltered. Robert likewise grew silent. He’d likely interpret her hesitation as the same sadness for the loss that afflicted him--though as far as she could tell he didn’t remember much of his father--but the root of her stumble lay elsewhere. What froze the words on her tongue was instead the truth of the great lord’s death, stemming not from age or natural illness but the poisoned spines of the mad Fish he’d wed against her will, not to mention the years of strife and sorrow it bred. The prelude she had likewise left unsaid; the story really started with a Mockingbird. 

She touched the sigil at her breast almost reflexively, the silver shape a presence all its own. The Mockingbird, flown so high from the mud and sheepshit of his humble beginnings, singing such sweet songs, deceit and treachery hidden beneath the mellifluous notes. Such an unassuming, harmless creature had slain a lion cub crowned in stag’s horns, stolen a wolf and cloaked her in feathers to hide her in plain sight, kissed her over a castle made of snow, then dashed the Fish’s bones on the rocks far below. 

Movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention to the chamber’s doorway. As if her thoughts had summoned him, her father leaned against the jamb with his arms crossed over his chest, observing them with his sharp features and rich tunic only partly caught by the torchlight. He addressed the boy next to her on the bed with a sardonic tilt of his head. “I had thought to find you asleep, my lord. The hour grows late.” 

Alayne spoke quickly to curtail any protest from the Sweetrobin, who hated being told when to go to bed. “Very soon, father. We were just finishing up a bedtime story.”  _ Or seven,  _ she thought with some annoyance. 

“Alayne tells the best stories,” Robert declared.

He chuckled lowly. “That she does. What imagination my dear daughter has.” His eyes glinted strangely; she could not discern between amusement and reproach. “I bid you goodnight, Lord Robin. Alayne, love, come find me when you are finished.”

He departed as quietly as he’d come. She turned back to Robert, his clammy milk-sour hands tightening around hers in excitement. She drew a deep breath. “The little Robin grew up to be a great Eagle like his father, and all the creatures of the land came to swear fealty to him...” 

The sickly fledgling will be dead long before the worst of the winter snows of yet more sweet, numbing oblivion, but for now she placated him with stories--lies well-meant--soothing him with adventures of the man that he will never be. He’ll never see spring again, should it come, but she could weave tales of honor and bravery with the silver tongue her father had gifted her. 

******

Mercifully, the little tyrant succumbed to sleep before she ran out of ideas. She withheld her sigh of relief until after slipping out of Robert’s chambers, leaving the boy dozing peacefully with an occasional quiet snuffle. A knowing look to the guards outside prompted them to lock the door behind her; a mercy that would ensure she wouldn’t be disturbed in her own bed--by  _ him _ at least.

Alayne made her way through the darkened passages to the private wing far away from prying eyes that housed her father’s study and, coincidentally, both their bedchambers, encountering only a few servants who didn’t bat an eye at her nocturnal wanderings. He’d deferred the grander, more accessible Lord’s Rooms to Robert with good grace. And was only natural that his daughter be kept close by, after all.

Upon arrival, she didn’t bother knocking; instead she slipped inside and, out of habit, locked the heavy oak door behind her, its well-oiled latch sliding into place with a minute  _ click.  _ Her father sat at his desk, quill in hand, with various piles of parchment and scrolls scattered around him in meticulously curated chaos that concealed the most important documents from casual inspection. Moonlight shone through the windows, bathing what wasn’t illuminated by torches and candles in cool soft glow. 

He looked up at her entrance, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and sat back, pushing his chair away from his desk. “That was quite the tale.” 

She returned his smile with a more demure one of her own, the timorous affectation designed to titillate belied by the hint of sway she lent to her hips as she walked toward him. “It gets him to sleep,”  _ without the need for overmedication, _ she didn’t say aloud, but he heard nonetheless. “He’d managed the whole day without a fit.”

“What an achievement,” he remarked dryly, then patted his knee with a lascivious grin. “Come give your father a kiss.”

She felt her breath hitch with the curious blend of want and unease he always engendered in her, the former having come to dominate the latter but not eliminate it completely. When she reached him, he drew her onto his lap, his hands low at her hips. He merely appraised her for a moment, but then he’d always liked to  _ look _ . She didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, having long become accustomed to it. “We missed you at dinner, Father,” she murmured, squirming slightly just to see what response she could get out of him. 

She was rewarded when he brought her flush against himself, burgeoning arousal unmistakable. “I’m sorry sweetling, but I was busy,” he replied, apologetic tone at odds with his leer and the way his thumbs pressed in at the hollows of her hips.

She likewise slung her arms around his neck, raking her fingernails gently through the short hair at his nape using the leverage to grind down on him with more purpose. “Myranda asked about you.”  _ Again,  _ she thought with mild vexation. 

He cocked an eyebrow in vague interest, clearly more concerned with the way she was rubbing herself against him, pressing her into his lap with more delicious friction. “Did she? I hope you passed along my regrets.”

She nodded. “I promised her I’d check on you.”

“Such a dutiful child, so concerned with her father’s welfare.” His grin broadened, grey-green eyes darkening in lustful amusement. “I must confess, I find myself quite hungry indeed.”

She pursed her lips in a moue of false contrition. “I’m sorry Father, I didn’t bring you anything.”

He laughed, bringing a hand up to smooth over her frown with his thumb. “Don’t fret, my dear.” The brush of his knuckles down her cheek might be mistaken for paternal affection until his hand dropped to her shoulder, fingers sweeping over her skin to push the material of her dress lower, baring her breasts to him. The look he shot her before he bent his head to her chest was pure sin. “I have everything I need right here.”

She remembered how much his kiss had shocked and unsettled her those many moons ago--before she knew enough to decide whether she liked what he did to her or not--so innocent and chaste compared to what they shared now. That girl would be horrified by her shameless moan at the tickle of his beard grazing up and down her neck like feathers as he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses over her skin, nipping lightly as he went. Part of her wanted him to leave marks, though she would have to hide them from her maids. She gasped as he took her bared breast into his mouth, suckling and biting, hands sliding up under her skirts, sneaking beneath her smallclothes and pulling them down along with the cumbersome woolen hose out of the way.

Alayne canted her hips eagerly, opening herself up for his warm fingers with their cold rings: he always kept them on, and the contrast made her shamefully wet. One hand carefully navigated her maidenhead, teasing her entrance and torturing her with soft brushes of his thumb against her clit (he’d delighted in educating her about her secret place then watching her pleasure herself) while the other kneaded at her arse cheeks.

Boldly she reciprocated, slipping her hand under the edge of his tunic, feeling the rough furrow of skin dividing his body far more distinctly and concisely than the separation between the two beings that lived within said vessel--one a monster, the other the man grown from a boy who had loved her mother. She managed somehow in the non-existant space between them to loosen the laces of his breeches and delve inside, finding him already fully hard. She marvelled at the way soft skin glided smoothly over the iron beneath, stroking him the way he liked--the way he’d taught her, so patiently--and was gratified to earn a muffled groan, the piercing of his teeth tightening around the bud of her nipple going straight to her sex. His attentions to her breast alternated between pleasure and pain, and just when she thought she could bear no more, he switched sides, repeating the process over again. 

To think how she’d blushed when Myranda had teased her not long ago, never imagining that she’d know the answer to the impertinent query, or even want that knowledge. If it was wicked for a daughter to know the size of her own father’s  _ finger _ , how awful must it be have the taste of his seed coating her tongue, how irredeemable to crave his mouth over her cunt?

The looming spectre of her necessary marriage and unwanted husband faded in times like this when it was just the two of them, sealed away from the world outside. She needed the foolish Young Falcon to love her, but couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have more than her father’s clever fingers and wicked tongue inside her. Would it be merely the solemn duty her mother had always made of the marriage bed or something altogether more depraved?

The servant girls spoke more freely in her presence as an assumed baseborn. From the preview she’d gotten courtesy of one of the kitchen wenches Harry had bedded, what lay in store for her in the marriage bed was impetuous, vain, and selfish, if pretty to look at, so different to Petyr’s soft, careful touch--insistent, cajoling but never forceful. She suspected he was very different from most men in many ways. If nothing else, she had Lysa’s mad caterwauling to go by at least.

Alayne buried her cries in the rich silk of his doubleted shoulder, rocking against him, pressing her face into the perfumed skin of his neck as he drove her higher and higher--just to the sweetest edge of pleasure--when suddenly, he stilled altogether. She let out a frustrated growl, tugging at his hair ungently only to feel the curve of his smirk against her breast. He delighted in tormenting her thusly, as if her desire was an instrument to pluck and strum at his leisure, though even if he made the wait agonizing, he never left her wanting. 

He leaned back with a smug look, set her on the edge of his desk, with her skirts pulled up and her legs spread wide, admiring his handiwork--the state he already had her in--with something like self-satisfied reverence. “How lucky am I to have a daughter to provide me with such a feast,” he growled playfully.

“Father,  _ please,” _ she cried with a wantonness that would’ve shamed her mother. 

He chuckled, a dark rich thing that fed the heat between her legs. “You beg so prettily my girl, how could I not?”

She almost sobbed in relief as his mouth covered her sex, devouring her with abandon, tongue at turns curling inside her and lapping her clit. He proceeded to sup at her until his beard was soaked through and she hadn’t the energy to even moan, staring at her as she fell apart again and again. Finally, she could bear no more, and pushed him away weakly. He complied--or so she thought--sitting back in his chair with a grin, but then snuck a hand between her legs instead. Despite her grip on his wrist, the pad of his thumb rubbed her over-sensitized clit in firm strokes to prolong the sweet agony, and she wailed when he pinched the tortured nub to send her over into violent bliss once more. 

“Good girl,” he cooed, the praise laced with an almost cruel possession that shouldn’t bring warmth to her chest. He stood between her legs and finally took her mouth with his, sharing the bitter taste of her cum when his tongue found hers. When she recovered the capacity to think, she curled her fingers around his long-neglected cock.  With a few harsh strokes more he spilled into her hand, her name—her birth name, the one her mother had given her—falling in guttural syllables from his lips even as the drops of his seed coated her fingers, straying to his tunic, the dress bunched around her waist. She would have to scrub them out herself, but she’d done so many times before. 

He collapsed into his chair and pulled her back into his lap so she curled up against him. The embrace--their breath mixing and sweat-slicked skins cooling against each other--was almost more intimate that the profane touches they’d exchanged. She saw him glance over at the bed he kept in his solar, seemingly at war with himself. It was a boundary they had not yet breached; she always fled back to her own room and he his after he visited her in the late hours when night gave way to morning. 

It might be quite pleasant to lie with him, but even in their sated states it was a risk that might test his vaunted self-control. He’d all but promised to sully the sanctity of her marriage bed, and though her maidenhead was meant to be Harry’s, she could see his resolve wavering, coming ever closer to keeping it for himself. For better or worse, she had joined the Mockingbird on his climb, whether carried on his back or in his talons remained uncertain. She still didn’t know if she was meant to share the nest he so laboriously, painstakingly built on high, or merely adorn it. Only time would tell. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, any feedback is greatly appreciated.


End file.
